Trap, Set and Match
by Random Ruth
Summary: The joke shop has a mouse problem, Miranda is protective of her fridge, and Stevie has been panic buying. One-shot; a prezzie for my bestie DawnMalco.


**Author's Note:** My first Miranda fic, and hopefully not the last. This fic is dedicated to DawnMalco because of her awesome. Hope you enjoy! :)

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><p><strong>Trap, Set and Match<strong>

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><p>Why hello to you, my chum. I'm sitting here on the sofa in my pyjamas and fluffy slippers. I've got a nice cup of tea too. And because I am sitting <em>so<em> comfortably, I shall begin...

I went downstairs to the shop this morning to find Stevie behind the counter in her coat and scarf, appearing, shall we say, a might dishevelled. Her hair looked like it had come out on the wrong side of a fight between itself and one of those electric globe thingies.

Stevie had already been to the shops, and within her torn and frayed bag for so-called life were at least forty mousetraps. All of them ended up in a pile on the counter next to the till once she tipped the bag up.

The mousetrap avalanche was enough to give me pause halfway down the stairs. Stevie, of course, in her wide-eyed and hyper-vigilant state, spotted me as soon as the pause had been received.

"Hello," I said cheerfully with a smile and a wave. "Uh, what are you doing?"

This was all that was required for her to begin speaking at a hundred frantic little miles per hour. "I saw a mouse—I was panic buying," she replied as she shrugged off her coat and let it fall. There was a moment's silence as I remained in a state of mild confusion and Stevie inspected a trap. And then she was all movement again. "What are you doing up there? Trap, set, match—go, go, _go_!"

The mousetrap she threw at me missed my face (small mercies). "Ow!" I exclaimed, rubbing my now sore shoulder. The mousetrap projectile clattered down the stairs. "Stevie!" I managed to make her name sound like an accusation.

But Stevie was unaffected, as driven as she was to rid the world (or at least my joke shop) of the mouse menace (all sales of the future book The Mouse Menace copyright Miranda, please and thank you). "I saw a mouse—we have to catch it!" Stevie said, kneeling down next to the giant stuffed kangaroo to lay a trap. Then she gave me a pointed look. "What if the health inspector comes and closes us down for poor hygiene?"

Stevie's pointed look was very sharp and pointy, but I didn't know what a health inspector had to do with it. Everybody gets the odd Mouse Menace™. "But we don't sell any food here," I pointed out, rather reasonably I thought.

She sighed as if she was trying to teach a stupid cat algebra and she was annoyed because it wasn't getting it. (I do, as it happens, understand algebra. 'X' always equals... er... forget I said that. Wipe your minds.) Without getting up from the floor or looking at me again, Stevie waved a chocolate willy at me. I'd forgotten about those (the shame, I am so sorry, my dear chocolate willies).

"Oh," I said. The very real possibility of losing the precious chocolate willies made the situation all the more serious for me. Descending the last of the stairs, I picked up the mousetrap that Stevie had thrown at me with the idea that I would help. She did, after all, look a bit (a _lot_) stressed.

Stevie sprung to her feet like a—like a—_spring_, and dusted off her knees. "We need bait," she announced (bossily). "Bring me your cheese."

I recoiled in horror, hugging the mousetrap close to my chest (it is not, as you would imagine, as cuddly as a teddy bear—or indeed a piece of my precious cheese). "But it's my cheese," I told her.

That should have been the end of it, but Stevie had the nerve to roll her eyes at me and point out that it was Tesco Value cheese in my fridge. Well, _excuse you_, madam, but: "It's _my_ cheese."

Before an argument could break out (I will protect my fridge and its contents to the death. _Death_, I tell you... or at least until the best before date), Gary appeared with a cheery "Hi!" and a basket of muffins, one of which I snatched once it was within my reach.

"Ugh!" I said around a mouthful of savoury muffin. "Savoury muffins—again? Do you _never_ learn?" Gary did look a bit embarrassed about it, but whatever he said about being a creative chef was drowned out by the idea that had popped into my head. Stevie and I both turned to each other at the same time and the look we exchanged was a significant one.

"Thanks for the muffins, Gary," I told him, and I meant it. This was the gorgeous and brilliant man who had saved my cheese from Stevie. "I accept your offering."

"But—" Gary spluttered, taken aback by my sudden U-turn, but Stevie was already showing him to the door.

That was this morning. The chocolate willies are now safe and sound in my kitchen cupboard. We baited the mousetraps with the savoury muffins. Stevie is still downstairs, sitting in the dark with her spatula of death and waiting for the snap of a trap. I'm lounging here and telling you this because I had better things to do with my time. _Inspector Morse_ was coming on so I left Stevie to deal with the Mouse Menace™.

So that's the story in Balamory.

(Oh, get me, down with da kidz.)

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><p><strong>THE END<strong>


End file.
